Semantics
by TheAliensDidIt
Summary: Detailing the exploits of Bartimaeus of Uruk (i.e. moi), the Serpent of the Silver Plumes, N'gorso the Mighty, the Bane of Magicians, in great battles of wit and cunning... you'd best say your incantations correctly and pray your pentacle has no faults, for if there is one, I will find it.
1. Chapter 1

Didn't even have the decency to start slowly, I thought darkly.

They never bothered with gradual summons to let you orient yourself. Oh nooo, they always hit you with a ton of bricks and drag your essence to Earth with tenterhooks. Rude folk, magicians are. They always assume we're floating around in the Other Place with nothing to do except wait for the summons.*

This summon was particularly aggressive and rather overzealous, if I do say so myself. It was not dissimilar to a bratty child who'd been promised a new toy, but still felt the need to make a big fuss out of it. To be fair, most magicians are bratty children after all.

For a few moments, the gravity of the Other Place anchored me against the words of power. I grabbed a wisp of cloud to buy myself a few seconds, absentmindedly creating a mental image of the magician who was summoning me. When a djinni is as old and wise as yours truly,* he can come up with an accurate representation of a magician just from the style of the summons alone.

Knowing your enemy, you see, is important for coming up with the perfect form. With a little bit of luck and careful planning, the right guise can scare or anger a magician... and when irritated, well, a magician's prone to making mistakes. And so I deduced, from the brattiness radiating through the threads dragging me to Earth, that this fellow was unpleasant and cocky, but had the skills to back it up. Middle-aged, well-learned, confident...

Ah, but I was only listing positive qualities. That won't do. And so I deduced further that my dear new master, while admittedly powerful, would also be prone to temper tantrums and easy to rile up with insults. He'd probably have a fancy little mustache and ruddy little cheeks that would light up in the most delightful manner with the insults I was already preparing... and he'd probably be fat too. Yes, fat.

With a sigh, I relinquished my hold on the cloud and was pulled to Earth. It had to happen sooner or later, for no amount of resistance could hold off a summon forever. But I resisted each summon anyway, for Bartimaeus of Uruk doesn't do obedient, no sir.

As my essence twisted and turned on its way down to Earth, I contemplated on what form to take. Obviously, my new master was experienced in the art of summoning and would not be put off by any amount of fangs or tentacles. I briefly considered appearing as a whirling vortex of sand but realized the complexity of that guise would be lost on him.* I finally settled on the age-old, universal weakness known to man.

A pretty young woman resembling Cleopatra, adorned in sheer Egyptian silk, materialized in the summoning pentacle. She sat cross-legged on the ground and stared calmly at the magician in front of her with piercing black eyes. I'd taken liberty with the guise and added a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. Men are suckers for intelligent women, I've learned.

The magician sat in the dead center of his pentacle. I noted with pride that my earlier predictions were right—he did have a lovely little mustache and ruddy little cheeks. Also, he was fat.

I looked disinterestedly at his pentacle, searching for any mistakes. It was highly unlikely, at this point, since it was clear he was used to this business.

"Demon," he rudely interrupted my musing, "by the constraints of these pentacles—"

The maiden cut him off, sighing melodically. "_Demon _is such an ugly word, my lord," she said, voice soft and clear as a running stream.

"Demon you are, wretch!" My master cried. "Demon and nothing more!"

Cleopatra lowered her head to hide the sly glint in her shapely eyes, for I'd noticed the way his eyes had lingered over my form regardless of his exclamation. "Very well, my lord. This demon is subject to your will. Name it, and it shall be done." I brought my eyes up just a hint and fluttered my eyelashes.

"I am about to marry," my master said, jowls quivering in excitement as he drew out a crumpled photograph of a generously-proportioned woman* from his shirt pocket. Here it comes, the command.

"I charge you, Bartimaeus, to"—Cleopatra shifted a bit, revealing more of her—ahem—assets as the Egyptian cloth slipped down further, and my master broke out in sweat before continuing—"lay out a trail of scattered rose petals leading to my beloved, to transform"—Cleopatra fixed the magician with a sultry stare, and he _almost _stuttered—"into a winged creature and fly me along this route, to deliver"—and finally, the maiden languorously stretched out her long legs, and my master squeaked before rallying impressively to finish his charge—"me to my beloved and sufficiently impress her to accept my proposal!"

I inwardly raged. I, the great Bartimaeus of Uruk, N'gorso the Mighty, Serpent of the Silver Plumes—reduced to this? The nerve! Outwardly, though, Cleopatra maintained her composure, nodding demurely as if this was an everyday task.

"You are dismissed, demon!" My master waved a hand, and I took my time about it, giving him a good view of my retreating backside. I felt his eyes on me and Cleopatra grinned, for I'd found a mistake in his charge, and I intended to use it.

The lucky soon-to-be-bride was soon located, the rose petals dutifully strewn. I returned to my master and Cleopatra transformed into a rosy-cheeked cherub with fluffy white wings. "Ready to go, master," the cherub sang.

He blanched. The jowls danced as if by their own will and the ruddy little cheeks flushed with color. It was quite a lovely sight. "You cannot take me to my beloved by... by that!"

I pouted. "You asked for a winged form, my lord, and I deliver."

"No! I want something that will inspire awe from my beloved!* This... thing will not do!"

In the blink of an eye, I became a flying gargoyle. "Better?"

"It is hideous!" My master screeched. "Do you toy with me, demon?"

I instinctively shifted back to Cleopatra, cowering in false terror in the pentacle as he opened his mouth to no doubt inflict punishment. "I do not toy, my lord!" The maiden's voice rose a few octaves in fright.

Almost against his will, my master's hand dropped and he closed his mouth. Scowling, he glared at Cleopatra, curled up on the floor. "Very well, then. Give me something impressive."

I shifted into a flaming red phoenix which crowed and took to the air in a burst of flames,* and I saw my master's eyes finally light up. He enthusiastically climbed on my back but kept slipping down due to his weight, and so I had to resort to carrying him with my claws instead. Despite that, I admit that we still made a splendid sight as we took to the skies and I flew him along the trail of rose petals.

The bride-to-be was waiting quite a ways down, but her awestruck expression was clearly visible. My master held his hands out to her and shouted, "There she is!"

Ah, love. We could not have that.

So I opened my claws and released him. His songs of love were cut off and transformed into a rather undignifying shriek, although I suppose if one was plummeting down to one's death, dignity is the last thing in mind.

He landed with a _splat _on the pavement, spraying his beloved with bits of... matter. Her face was stuck in abject horror, eyes and mouth wide open. I settled down beside her with considerably more grace than my master, turning back into Cleopatra. I curtsied to her as the bonds between master and djinni broke and the Other Place tugged at me.

"One husband-to-be," I managed to get in the last word, "delivered to his beloved, in a manner that will sufficiently impress her."

* * *

* Well, that _is _what we do on a daily basis, but they're not to know that.

* Of course, there are also djinn older than yours truly. Also more powerful, more renowned, etc. But in the departments of wit and charm, my dear, I do have them all beat.

* What is the expression you mortals use? "Pearls before swine," as they say?

* Predictably as corpulent as he.

* He really was starting to overuse the term 'my beloved.' And how one could love the bride-to-be, I wonder... although perhaps the similar fleshiness between the two could have something to do with it.

* An effect that did not reach its full potential because of the limited size of the room I was in. Why do I even bother?


	2. Chapter 2

It is nigh impossible to keep track of the passage of time in the Other Place, but yours truly does a fair job of it by counting the number of clouds passing by. This, incidentally, was how I deduced that an itch had been niggling at me for the better part of the day.

The Itch, I should say. Quite worrying.

What do you mean, why worry? Bah. If you had half the brains of an average djinni, you'd know that we are not supposed to _feel _anything in the Other Place, much less an itch. Our essence remains untouched so long as we are here. Ignorant mortals.

I gave myself a vigorous shake as the itch intensified, shifting from a vibrating hum to faint scratches at my essence. This time, however, it refused to die away, and I gritted my teeth in annoyance. The scratching escalated, cutting hair-thin slices and pin-pricks into my essence.*

What I wouldn't give for this itch to go away. Failing that, I'd settle for a distraction—Faquarl, maybe, for some light banter and whole-hearted death threats. Oooh, or even better, Jabor—there's a certain amusement in seeing a fellow djinni so dense that your taunts fly past his head. Shame, really, that they were off on a summon...

Wait.

_Wait._

This itch. Could it be...?

I shook my head in disbelief. It was a summon. I was being summoned.

I have to say, this is the first I've felt a summon so pathetic.

I narrowed my eyes in anger. This was an outrage. Never, in all my existence, have I suffered from a summon this weak, this feeble, and I refuse to be summoned by this—this—pitiful excuse of a magician! I am Bartimaeus of Uruk, and slave to man I may be, but this djinni has standards! I will not stand down while some doddering old fool who thinks it's a good idea to play magician stumbles across my name, barely scrapes together a decent pentacle, and makes me itch the whole day—

Ooh, and there it was again!

Sweet Gate of Ptolemy, if being summoned will get rid of this itch, the old fool can take me now. And then I'd eat him, return to the Other Place, and we'd all be happy. Well, except _him, _but his miserable summoning wasn't earning him any favors from me.

And so for the first time in five thousand years, I propelled myself willingly to Earth. Even then, it took a frustratingly long time for the summon to follow through.

My form came naturally to me. I did not have to think about it, and my frustration manifested into the blackest abyss of night, complete with lightning and rain and howling winds in the blink of an eye. A split second before I materialised inside the pentacle, I added a touch of thunder—the kind of slow rumbling thunder that eventually crescendos in the most unexpected of moments.

I have a penchant for dramatics. And, well, if I managed to give the magician a heart attack, that was even better.

The storm, trapped inside the pentacle, swirled malevolently. Two gleaming red eyes appeared from the center of the darkness as I took in my surroundings.

And the (impressive) form I had so painstakingly crafted vanished as I beheld the magician.

I exaggerate, really, because the sniveling eight-year-old boy before me was hardly a magician.* Never mind the fact that his pentacles were acceptable, never mind the fact that he'd been able to summon a fourth-level djinni, never mind that he had another djinni sitting on his lap, disguised as a cocker spaniel—

Now hold on just a second.

Some time during my shock, I had shifted into my well-worn guise of Ptolemy. Now Ptolemy's eyes widened comically and his mouth sputtered. "Queezle?"

"Oh, hello, Bartimaeus," the spaniel said cheerfully. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Queezle?"

"Yes, we've gone through that already, Bartimaeus."

"Queezle!" I was not very coherent. It was disconcerting.

"Oh, spit it out, Bartimaeus."

"What." My mouth seemed to be working at last. "What are you doing here? On _him?"_

The spaniel fixed me with a withering look. "I was summoned, Bartimaeus."

"Sitting on—on him! Letting him pet you like a dog!"

"It seemed only fair that I let him do this. We both went halfway, after all."

I paused for a moment, letting her words fall in. They'd met halfway... which implied that the boy had stepped out of his pentacle, and so had Queezle.

I realized at that moment that the stupidity of humans knows no bounds. The thought was frightening. I made a choking sound at the back of my throat.

"Now then," Queezle said to the boy, all puppy-like once again. "Why don't you tell Bartimaeus about your problem?"

Ptolemy scowled heavily, an expression out of place on his face, and so I became a prowling griffin, noting with satisfaction how the boy gulped in fear. "I've got no time for your problems, brat. How did you find me, anyway?"

"Ignore him. Go on, tell him what's going on."

A troubling thought started to dawn on me. Did Queezle... no. She wouldn't. We were friends, she would not have betrayed me in such a manner. She would not. She would n—

"Queezle," I said. "How did he find me?"

"Oh, I recommended you for the job," the spaniel said innocently. "I told him all about your exploits. He was very convinced."

The griffin looked aghast. "I don't believe you."

"As I was saying," Queezle turned back to the boy again. "Bartimaeus is a good friend of mine. He tries to hide it, but he's very soft on the inside"—the griffin squawked in protest—"and I'm sure he can help you."*

"He's gone," the boy spoke for the first time, surprise painted on his snotty face as he stared at my pentacle.

"No, dear," Queezle said patiently. "He's just turned into a fly. See there?"

I was buzzing rather angrily when Queezle continued. "Come on, Bartimaeus. This'll be done quickly if you cooperate." The fly attempted to buzz even louder but failed, and subsequently turned into a sulky Ptolemy once again. Queezle looked absurdly pleased with herself.

"Well," I said, positively dripping with sarcasm, "why don't we all get to know each other then, shall we? I'm Bartimaeus. What's your name, boy?"

"Thomas," the boy sniffled.

There was a long, profound silence. I shook my head very, very slowly, then decided to take it even further. "Thomas what?"

"Thomas Stricker."

Now this. This was beyond ridiculous.* "He told me his _name."_

"Bartimaeus, be nice," Queezle said disapprovingly.

"I have his _name."_

"You'll do nothing with it. Now, do you or do you not want to go back to the Other Place?"

"What?" I cried. "Why are you on _his _side? Look, can't we just eat him now? I'll split him with you—you can have whichever half you want!"

"Bartimaeus, if you want to go back in one piece, sit down and listen!"

I sulked even more. "Can't see why you're always taking their side..."

The spaniel talked over me, nudging the boy with her nose. "Go on, then."

The boy muttered something inaudible.

I sighed heavily. "I'd like to go back in this century, please. Speak up, would you?"

"A few of the older kids are bullying me," he mumbled.

"Shame," I commented offhandedly. "You want me to beat them up, is that it?"

The boy shook his head violently. "N-no. They're not the ones picking on me. Their foliots are."

There was another long silence. You could almost hear a pin drop. I stared at the boy incredulously. "So you summoned me, a fourth-level djinni, to deal with a couple of foliots?" I didn't give him the chance to respond, for the ball was rolling. The nerve of this boy! He'd made me itch all day, then put me through his abysmal summoning, all to deal with a few foliots? This brat needed to be taught a lesson. "Do you have any inkling of who I am, boy? I am Bartimaeus of Uruk! Rekhyt of Alexandria, Sakhr al-Jinni of Al-Arish! And you summon me to deal with foliots! Foliots!"

The boy flinched. "I'm sorry!"

Without missing a beat, I fired back. "You should be, you sniveling boy! I'll be doing you a favor right now, in fact—why don't you send me back right now, and I won't turn you inside out and hang you to dry!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you're not strong enough for the foliots!"

Ptolemy paused, became a hideous gargoyle. There was another silence, this time as sharp as the gargoyle's stone fangs. "What did you say?"

The boy was blubbering. "You can't do it, that's why you got mad at me, right? I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"Boy," the gargoyle said with deadly calm. "Come here."

The brat shifted nervously inside his pentacle.

"Bartimaeus—" Queezle began, but I spared her not a glance.

"Come here," I repeated.

The boy bit his lip and tentatively lifted his foot, inching closer to the line of his pentacle, and brought it down.

There was the grinding sound of the gargoyle's stone palm colliding with its forehead. "No. Stop. Just... stop."

"But you said—"

"I have never," I said slowly, "met someone as stupid as you."

The boy looked offended.

"How did you even summon me? You found an old book lying around, messed around with the pentacles, said the words, and there I was?" I was genuinely, truly confounded.

The boy nodded.

I exhaled heavily. "Uraziel's hind foot..."

Queezle chose that moment to chime in. "You see why I couldn't eat him now, Bartimaeus?"

"I do. He's too stupid, you can't help feeling sorry for him."

"No. Well, yes. Well..." the spaniel trailed off.

"Does that mean you'll help me?" the boy said hopefully.

I sighed again. "Fine. Fine. Yes, I will. And for your information, boy, I am perfectly capable of handling foliots."

The boy beamed happily, pointing outside. "They like to wait for me when I go out."

To think that I, Bartimaeus, would be reduced to handling foliots! If nothing else, at least they made good punching bags. I returned to the boy approximately three minutes later,* still miffed but slightly mollified by venting out my frustration on those unfortunate souls. "It's done."

Queezle blinked. "That was fast."

I leveled her with an unimpressed face. "They were foliots."

The boy rushed to the nearest window and peered outside. "Wow! How did you get that fat one in the chimney?"

I shrugged. "Might have cut away a little of the excess parts. Now," I said disregarding his green-tinged face, "I've taken care of those foliots, but nothing's stopping those boys from picking on you again. Get out there and beat them up instead."

"B-but," the boy stammered. "I can't. They're all older than me!"

The gargoyle looked up and sighed impatiently. "Yes, well, so they're older. Probably have more meat on their bones, too. Look at you, a little twig in comparison. You're as bright as a brick and about half as interesting as the jar that I was sealed into for ten years as punishment, but you were able to summon me and Queezle—fourth level djinn, the both of us. And those boys have got _foliots. _Now what does that say about you?"

As I reached the climax of my impromptu speech, the boy's eyes grew wider and wider. At last I saw the first flickers of fire burn in his eyes, and the boy nodded vehemently, graced me with a "You're right, I'm better than them!" and rushed outside, slamming the door on his way.

I waited before he was fully out of earshot before cackling and rubbing my hands together in glee. The sound of stone on stone screeched against my ears, though, and I promptly stopped. "He's going to come back with a black eye, at least."

Queezle looked at me with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "Why did I even bother with you?"

"Admit it, you think he's as dense as Jabor."

"I do," the spaniel said, then continued thoughtfully. "He does grow on you though."

"Like a weed," I supplied helpfully.

Whatever Queezle was about to say was rudely interrupted by the sound of rushed footsteps and the door crashing open. "I forgot to send you back!" The boy yelped, digging through his pockets for a slip of paper. As his lips stumbled over the unfamiliar words, I ignored his minuscule slips and watched as he was miraculously able to complete the incantation.

I felt the bonds tying me to Earth break and my essence started to drift back to the Other Place. The gargoyle skipped about happily, but a tiny part of me wished I could have stayed to see the results of my arousing speech. Ah, well. One can't have it all, and I did manage to get Queezle to promise she'd fill me in.*

* * *

* I struggle to find a comparison banal enough for you to understand. The feeling would be comparable to getting a paper cut... yes, Bartimaeus of Uruk has fallen prey to a paper cut once. But that is neither here nor there—now imagine having that feeling on all parts of your body. Simultaneously. Repeatedly.

* I was struck then with a vision of my dear old master. Natty-boy looked just like this when I first saw him... on the up side, the eight-year-old brat who summoned me wasn't wearing Nat's ridiculously large cufflinks. He was a walking disaster, I tell you... who's Natty-boy? Ah. Well. No one. No one at all... forget I said anything, really.

* No, no, a thousand times no. I am a feared and dangerous fourth-level djinni—I have battled and killed and survived and served—I am _not soft. _

* At that moment, I am ashamed to say that I did not even think of the possibilities I could achieve with his real name. Five thousand years, and I've never once met someone this stupid...

* Don't get me wrong—it would have taken less than half a minute to deal with them, had I been going seriously. However, I felt that I deserved the liberty of toying with those pesky foliots, especially after all the events of today. One foliot was still stuck in a chimney, while the others were strung along a clothesline and furnished with garlands of daisies.

* I later learned that the boy would return sporting a black eye, two loose teeth, and a broken nose. It was delightful.


End file.
